


Free Ticket to Ride

by sleepypercy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom!Sam, Conflicted Dean, M/M, slutty sam, underage: Sam is 14-15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 06:37:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12699408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypercy/pseuds/sleepypercy
Summary: There’s a one-way express ticket to Hell hidden beneath Sam’s lazy smile, smoldering like hot coals in the dark corners of the boy’s mouth. It makes Dean shift anxiously from the driver’s side of the Impala, mistrustful of the devious brain working overtime behind his brother’s soft baby cheeks.Sam knows exactly what he's doing to Dean. And Dean can't seem to get Sam to stop.





	Free Ticket to Ride

There’s a one-way express ticket to Hell hidden beneath Sam’s lazy smile, smoldering like hot coals in the dark corners of the boy’s mouth. It makes Dean shift anxiously from the driver’s side of the Impala, mistrustful of the devious brain working overtime behind his brother’s soft baby cheeks.

Sam’s been playing this particular game for a few hours now. Although it’s really a continuation of the same game the kid has played since the day he hit puberty, hero-worship transmuting into something stubborn and hot, dark enough that neither Dean nor their father could comfortably name but which made John start booking separate beds for boys from there on in. 

Somewhere along the line, Sam had realized that Dean wasn’t unaffected either, figured out that his big brother could never look away when his lips stretched wide around a summer red popsicle, cherry fluid running down his chin, mouth and tongue hopelessly stained with sugar and ice. Or that Dean turned instantly hard the second Sam stepped out of a shower, water droplets falling from his eyelashes and running down tan skin.

Dean couldn’t look away then and he still can’t now. Even as his brother’s doing everything possible to torture him as they make their way up to Ohio to meet their dad for a potential poltergeist-related incident. Because Sam is apparently tired of moving pieces around, trying to trap Dean into making a mistake. He wants to get them to the endgame _now_ , is calling checkmate and trapping Dean against the corner of the board with nowhere to run. Daring Dean to try and make a move.

Dean thinks there’s more than a bit of predator in his brother, a deep-rooted instinct to chase down wide-eyed prey, sink hungry milk teeth into soft flesh. And Dean hates to admit it, but part of him wants to bare his throat, let Sam devour him.

From his pocket, Sam pulls out the Berry Peach flavored Lip Smacker balm he’d picked up from some dime store a month ago. God, Dean has no idea what possessed his brother to grab it, but Sam’s been using it almost religiously, coating his mouth every hour. His soft lips smack together after he traces it around the bow shape, making an obscene popping sound that belongs to the blonde-haired love interest in a teen beach party movie.

Sam’s nonchalant gaze turns Dean antsy. His fingers drum out AC/DC licks on the steering wheel before reaching under the seat and popping the first tape he can find into the tapedeck. _Foreigner._ “Feels Like The First Time.”

There’s a smirk wavering on Sam’s berry-shined lips that Dean chooses to ignore. Instead, he sings under his breath, trying not to wince when Sam joins in. That wavery, adolescent voice reminds Dean just how young the kid is. Or once was. With coltish knees knocking against the dashboard and a t-shirt that fit just last month riding up Sam’s hips, Dean has to admit that his little brother’s growing up.

They stop at a Gas n’ Sip ten miles inside the Nevada border. Sam runs inside to piss and grab some road food for the both of them. Dean’s in the middle of filling up the tank with gas — one palm stretched on the sun-warmed body of his Baby while his eyes watch the numbers flick higher — when a touch on his back has him whirling around, hand groping for the knife inside his pocket.

The surge of adrenaline recedes when he sees amusement dancing behind familiar hazel eyes.

“Dammit, Sam,” Dean growls, heart still pounding. “What d’ya want?”

“Nothing,” Sam answers, far too innocently. He shoves a plastic carton towards Dean, grinning and stating unnecessarily, “Got you some pie.”

Dean’s eyes narrow while Sam feigns innocence. But after failing to figure out his brother’s angle, Dean reaches out to take what looks like a slice of triple berry, dark juices spilling out from a flaky homemade crust. It’s not the usual gas-station generic brand, and Dean glances up, noticing the small, locally-run bakery attached to the south side of the building.

Sam pulls the pie away before Dean can grab it, popping open the lid and dipping a finger in the swirl of real, hand-whipped cream. Amused eyes are fixed on Dean’s the entire time. There’s no mistaking Sam’s intention at as he parts his lips and slides a long digit inside, rubbing his tongue while he sighs happily at the burst of sugar and cream.

It’s obscene. Obviously contrived. But Dean can feel his body reacting, blood rushing down and body heating up as carnal thoughts centered around his little brother’s soft, wet lips flicker through his brain. He tries to do his best to shove those mental images down, hiding them behind a scowl as he yanks the stopped pump out of the gas tank and slams it back on the hook.

Sam winches at the sharp clank, and there’s a sudden waver to his little brother’s expression, a signal that Sam may not be as confident as he seems. The hurt look in his eyes makes Dean feel guilty, and he wants to apologize. Hell, he wants to lick up the stray dab of whipped cream to the left of Sam’s mouth then crash their mouths together, sucking up the taste of cream and underage Sammy. He wants to run his hands through his brother’s silky hair, wants to put his mouth on every pink, hidden place on his little brother, wants to wrap himself around Sam and never let go.

But he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he twists the cap back on the gas tank and walks away, climbing inside the Impala and starting the engine while Sam slips quietly inside. The pie goes back inside the plastic shopping bag as Sam hands Dean a sandwich.

The smack of Dean chewing is the only sound for a few miles. Sam sips on a Dr. Pepper and stares out the window, brooding as he watches fields of wheat and livestock flash by.

“You could have just told me.” Sam’s voice is low enough that it takes Dean a few seconds to process what he’d said. When he doesn’t answer, Sam scowls and adds, “You could have… you could have told me to stop. But I thought you wanted it too. I thought you were just being a stubborn jackass. You should have said something. Months ago.”

Dean pauses, trying to figure out the right answer. But as usual, when it comes to Sammy, everything’s just shades of fucked-up gray. It doesn’t matter what Dean says, his brother’s going to get hurt.

“We’re brothers,” Dean finally settles on. “And you know I’d take a bullet for you. But this — ” His hand gestures vaguely between them, “ — is not gonna happen.”

Sam shoots a sullen glare his way and ignores Dean for the next four hours.

Dean wishes, not for the first time, that he could get inside his brother’s head, flip through his thoughts like a spiral notebook. Maybe he could figure out when everything started going sideways, figure out how he managed to fuck up raising Sammy when all he wanted to do was keep him safe. 

They stop for the night in Salt Lake because even Dean can’t drive 2300 miles in one stretch, especially not after taking care of a kadoma in Crescent City. He’s tempted to book two adjoining rooms because Sam’s silent tantrum is putting him on edge, but Dean doesn’t sleep well when Sam is more than an arm’s reach away.

Long after Sam’s sawing logs, Dean finds that he can’t sleep anyway. Too many things are tossing and turning in his head. It doesn’t help that Sam hasn’t stopped giving him the silent treatment, just warily wandered into the bathroom to take a shower before tucking himself into the far bed, his back turned towards Dean.

After two hours of staring at the ceiling, Dean realizes it’s gonna take more than just closing his eyes to fall asleep.

There’s one sure-fire way Dean knows how to de-stress and turn off his brain, although he hesitates to do it tonight when things are strange and tense between him and his brother. But after another long glance at Sam ensures that he’s still in the middle of a REM cycle, Dean figures it can’t hurt anything and he pushes his briefs down, cupping his soft cock in the warmth of his palm. 

The feel of his hand on his dick is a welcome comfort. He goes slow at first, concentrating on the relaxing, heated sensation, stretching his legs as his back arches slightly, breath puffing out in uneven, silent stutters. Inside the circle of his fingers, his dick perks up and stiffens while Dean tries to blank his mind to nothing but sex and touch. The feel of his own warming skin. The bite of his teeth digging into his lower lip.

His mind has always been good at wandering, however. It only takes a few minutes before it starts to muse on the shape of Sam’s hipbone. How the towel he’d been wearing after his shower had sat low enough on his hips that Dean could just start to make out the definition of sinew and muscle carved around bone. The thought pushes out a pulse of pre-come which Dean twists his hand up to catch, using it to coat his dick and make the slide a tiny bit easier. There’s lube in his duffle bag, but it’s too far, so Dean leans his head under the covers and spits into his fist, appreciating the glide as he starts to jack faster.

By the time he comes, it’s with a full mental picture of Sam’s shiny lips and naked body spread out, baby fat making him soft in all the right places. Dean’s cry of orgasm is stifled into his pillow, head turned and teeth clenched into the pillowcase. The cocktail surge of pleasure chemicals are enough to turn him worn out and sleepy, and he gingerly wipes the crusting splash of come onto the side of his mattress, scraping his palm into the faded sheets before turning on his side and falling fast asleep.

*&*

The middle of Wyoming is empty map, a lone black freeway surrounded by occasional bison and fields of wild grass. Halfway through I-80, Dean pulls over into a dusty side road, grunting over his shoulder to Sam that he’s going out to take a leak. Sam’s still giving him the silent treatment so there’s no answer, not that Dean expected one. He’s just shaking off a few stray drops when his cell rings. After tucking himself in, he rubs his palms against the oak he’d just splashed the roots of and — checking the ID — answers the call.

“Dad?”

“You boys over the Rockies yet?”

“Just a couple hours west of Cheyenne.”

“Job’s finished here. I’m headed to Vermont, got a lead on a blood storm and some herds of dead livestock. Caleb’s gonna meet me there and I want you to take your brother to Pastor Jim or Bobby’s.”

“I could meet you in a couple days if—”

“—Don’t need you on this one, son,” his dad gruffly interrupts. “I’ll be working for a month at least, and Sam’s got three more weeks of school left.”

“I…” Dean licks his lips, thinks for a moment. John doesn’t like to impose on other hunters if he can avoid it, but they’re always the safest places to send Sam and Dean if John thinks he’s gonna be out of touch for a while. “Pastor Jim,” he finally answers, and he hears his dad grunt in reply.

“Alright. I’ll call in a couple days. Don’t slack on your target practice, you hear? I want that recoil from the 10 gauge fixed by the time I see you again.”

“Yessir.”

The cell clicks as John hangs up. Dean knows from experience that a couple days usually turns into a couple weeks before John remembers to call. It stings just the same, being left behind, and some wisp of resentment unfurls, although Dean would never point it at Sam — or his father for that matter. He tends to rage against whatever nameless entity takes great joy in dicking over the Winchesters — fate, karma, god, the universe, whatever, name your poison, but Dean knows he was born in the trenches and he’s gonna die there one day too. He doesn’t usually let himself get caught up in the darkest part of that existence, but he’s more emotionally drained than usual.

Sighing, Dean shuffles back over to the Impala where Sam’s stretched out on the hood, soaking in the sun. Part of him is hesitant to spoil Sam’s mood with more bad news, and he waits a moment, admiring his two favorite things in the world pressed against each other.

His brother’s head is thrown back, a sliver of belly showing where the soft tee has ridden up and his long legs are hugging the curve of the Impala’s body. There are several frays and tears in Sam’s jeans, especially where it hinges at Sam’s knees, and golden, scabbed skin pokes through uneven rips.

Dean grunts at his brother and leans back into the bumper, trying to keep his tone even as he announces, “Change of plans. Heading to Blue Earth.” 

“Dad meeting us at Pastor Jim’s?” Sam asks after a beat.

“Not this time. He wants you to finish up the school year.”

“How considerate,” Sam replies, and Dean squints, trying to decide whether the sarcasm was thick enough to deserve a censure.

“Gonna have to buy you some new jeans when we get there,” Dean says, falling back into patterns of distraction, Sam’s greatest weakness. He picks at the loose, frayed jean threads and Sam unbends a knee to give Dean easier access.

“I like ‘em like this,” Sam comments.

“We can cut ‘em off even more if you like them so much. Make you a nice pair of daisy dukes.” Dean attempts to tug the hem of the legs down over Sam’s ankles but gives up after a minute, hopeless cause and all that.

“But I just broke these in.”

“Then stop growing so fast,” Dean complains mildly. His fingers are still on Sam’s ankle — he should probably move them but the warmth of Sam’s skin under his fingers makes him feel calmer.

“Gotta catch up to you,” Sam responds, and Dean looks up to see Sam grinning for the first time in days. The tightness in his chest finally loosens by a couple threads.

“Never gonna happen,” Dean replies confidently. Sam makes a little kicking motion with his foot in retaliation and Dean grabs it, yanks down a little.

There’s no friction on the finish of the car, not with Dean running it through a car wash and wax at least once a week. Gasping, Sam slides down faster than either of them had expected, limbs thrown back as he tries and fails to keep his balance. He has to grab onto Dean to keep his ass from falling on the ground, skinny arms catching around Dean’s shoulders as Sam gasps out, “Jerk!” 

Chuckling, Dean grabs onto Sam’s hips to help steady him, moving to catch Sam between his body and the bumper until the danger of Sam falling has passed.

“Careful, princess,” Dean teases, although he has to fight to keep his pulse even. He can feel the warmth of Sam radiate through every contact point, has the shape of Sam’s hips underneath his hands.

Rolling his eyes, Sam mutters, “Shut up,” and Dean doesn’t even have time to smirk before Sam’s kissing him.

He tries to push Sam away, but Sam scoots back and wraps his legs around Dean’s hips, locking them in tight. His mouth is warm, unpracticed but enthusiastic, and for what Dean thinks might be the kid’s first kiss ever, he has natural talent.

“N– stop,” Dean tries to get in between this mouths, but Sam makes an irritated sound and skates his hands down.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says. His fingers press into Dean’s dick, thumb rubbing against the jean material, and Dean gasps quietly. “I _know_ you, Dean. I know when you’re trying to hide something and when you’re doing a shitty job of it. You want me.”

Dean has no problem lying to the kid, not when it keeps him safe. But his dick’s already rock hard under Sam’s hand, and it’s in no position to lie. So he pries Sam off, as gently as he can, and then less gently when Sam gets stubborn.

They end up back in the car, Dean rounding back up north to pass through South Dakota. Sam puts up an obligatory bitch face, but it doesn’t last long. He seems more pensive, biding his time, and Dean’s got enough respect for his smart little brother to be worried.

“It’s all podunk towns from here to Pastor Jim’s,” Sam says a few hours in, turning to look at Dean, fields and buttes passing behind him through the window. “Can we just sleep in the car tonight? It’s almost dark anyway.”

“You hate sleeping in the car.” Dean gives his brother a once over, wondering what he’s up to. But Sam just shrugs.

“Yeah, well. Beats most of the flea-ridden motels around here. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about bed bugs and jizz blankets.”

“Alright. If that’s what you want,” Dean says with a sigh. He takes a few backroads – they’ve got most of their routes memorized – and they end up in some unused field near a set of dark hills. Sam smiles when they park because they’ve been here before. They stopped here years back during the Leonid meteor storms, John actually going slightly out of his way to find the best view possible. It was during one of those rare times between cases when John wasn’t as fanatic as usual, happy with a previous hunt and not in any particular hurry to get anywhere.

Sam stays up just late enough to watch the sunset. Dean keeps expecting Sam to try something, but he just leans into Dean on the bumper, warm shoulders touching while the sun dips down. Then Sam announces that he’s tired and he pulls some blankets out of the trunk, makes a nest in the back, and promptly falls asleep.

Dean stays up a little while longer, goes through some newspapers they’d picked up around the country, looking for patterns, reading with a flashlight. He watches Sam sleep for a little while – it’s not weird, it’s something he’s always done. It’s like a tic, something he can’t help. He has to know Sam’s alright, needs that constant reassurance.

Eventually, Dean grabs one of the three pillows Sam’s curled around in the backseat then lies back and sleeps. It feels good; open, warm air circulating through the crack in the window and the soft sound of Sam breathing. 

Dean sleeps in later than he expected, cracking his eyes open to an already-risen sun. Sam’s missing, and Dean sits up quickly, scanning in a quick 360 until he finds him.

It’s a quick search. Sam’s standing maybe 20 feet away, brushing his teeth, rinsing out the toothpaste with a water bottle. When Dean gets out of the car, Sam turns around, spitting out a mouthful of water to the side and grinning a white, toothpaste smile.

His legs are on full display – long, tan things filling out through the suddenly shortened legs of his jeans. They’ve been cut off (probably with a hunting knife) just below his ass, pockets peeking beneath the frayed hems. Dean’s dumbstruck for a full minute, just staring, brain caught in a cycle of how tall the kid is getting, how toned his thighs and calves look. How it’s so damn obvious that he’s not a chubby little kid anymore. Something inside aches at that, although Dean’s too preoccupied with other thoughts to dwell.

“Morning,” Sam says, crossing through the wild grass, stopping just in front of Dean. The little shit knows exactly what he’s doing, shifting his weight to one side of his hips, pink tongue just touching the edge of a canine.

Dean thinks about questioning Sam about his new fashion choice, but he doesn’t really want to have to acknowledge it, not when Sam can see right through his reaction.

Instead, he grunts at Sam to get in the car, announces that they’re stopping at the next diner they see. Dean’s hungry, and he wants a proper breakfast. He also wants to see how far Sam’s lack of shame extends, if he’s willing to waltz his pretty, sex kitten ass into a public restaurant.

It turns out that Sam’s shame threshold is pretty high. He turns his chin up, walks right into the restaurant, and slips into a booth across from Dean. The two waitresses in the restaurant raise their eyebrows, throw each other amused looks. Once Sam’s seated, however, dangerous-weapon legs hidden under the table, it’s a bit less exciting.

Sam orders oatmeal and toast with jam, smiling pretty at the waitress who giggles and promises to bring their orders right out. Dean would usually flirt, always ready for the game whether or not he has time and opportunity to follow through, but he can’t focus on anything right now besides Sammy.

Dean manages to get halfway through his pancake, bacon and egg slammer breakfast before he makes a grating sigh and says, “What the hell, Sam?”

“What do you mean?” Sam’s hazel eyes turn wide and faux innocent.

“You _know_ what I mean!” Dean slaps his fork down and gestures down towards Sam. “I mean: _what the hell??_ What’s with the Pretty Woman fashion makeover? Pre-Richard Gere? Why’s your _ass_ hanging out of your pants?”

Sam pauses thoughtfully, chewing on a bite of toast, strawberry fleck caught in his left dimple. After swallowing, he smirks. “What? You don’t like my ass? You don’t think it looks good?”

Dean’s jaw flexes. He can’t answer that question.

“If Dad were here–”

Sam’s trigger-finger temper immediately flares as he quickly spits out, “Well he’s not _here_ , is he? So I guess you’re stuck with just me.” He glares up at Dean, huffing out an irritated breath. 

“You know it’s not like that,” Dean says, quiet but still irritated. “I’m not _stuck_ with you. But you are being a giant pain in my ass right now. You gotta drop this.”

One of Sam’s darker bitchfaces cross his face. He holds Dean’s gaze and shakes his head. “Nope. Not this time.”

When Sam’s bare toes graze Dean’s ankle, he jumps hard enough to bang the table, swearing under his breath and moving his feet to underneath his chair. An innocent expression is sitting on Sam’s face when Dean rubs his sore thigh and glares.

“You ever think about me sucking you off under a diner table?” Sam says abruptly, and Dean nearly chokes. He doesn’t know how the kid can turn so hot and cold so fast. “Because I’ve thought about it all the time,” Sam continues, tiny, poison-laced smile on his lips. “In almost every diner we’ve ever stopped in since I turned thirteen.”

Dean pushes his plate away, avoids Sam’s eyes, and flags down the waitress to get the check. As he clips the signed receipt back inside the check holder, Dean sighs and says, “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m sorry I fucked you up like this.”

They’re back on the road a few minutes later. Sam’s quiet, although he hasn’t given up his new favorite game. He folds his legs up next to him so his toes are on the middle seat, almost touching Dean. If things weren’t weird between them, Dean would complain about Sam’s stinky feet, maybe poke or tickle them until Sam put on some shoes. Instead, he doesn’t say anything. Not even when Sam keeps stretching them out, toes pointing like an arabesque dancer, hand pushing his shirt up, rubbing absently at his stomach and making muted, happy sighing sounds every time he stretches.

They’re halfway through South Dakota when Sam quietly says, “You didn’t fuck me up.”

Dean throws him a quick glance, suddenly tired. “Yeah I did, Sammy. You’re better than this. You’re better than me.”

Sam shifts from the corner he’d been shouldered into, turns so his back is against the window and he’s facing Dean, bare knees pulled up. 

“Dean, you know you’re the only stable thing in my life, right? You’ve kept my life as normal and as good as possible. This is… not on you. It’s just happened. It’s not bad, Dean. And I’m not letting it go.”

It all sounds too enticing, the way Sam can weave reason and emotion together like this, making it seem ok. And god help him, Dean’s on the breaking point as it is, not used to denying Sam anything. But then Sam leans his chin down on the top of his knees, face softened and puppy-dog eyes staring at Dean, pleading with him to just give Sam this, give up the last shred of morals Dean’s been fisting in his hand like they mean anything.

While Dean hesitates, stuck between Sam’s puppy-dog eyes and his disappearing resolutions, Sam slides his naked foot over Dean’s thigh, causing Dean to jerk at the wheel.

“Fucking hell,” he hoarsely yells, yanking the car over to the side of the road because there’s no way he’s risking his Baby’s life just because Sam can’t keep his limbs to himself.

The moment the car is in park, Sam scoots closer, practically in Dean’s lap, his fingers touching Dean’s face.

“Please just – even just a little bit? I won’t – I won’t push, ok? Just. Can you kiss me?”

It melts the last hard resolution inside Dean, the warm feel of Sammy’s skinny legs over his, his sad eyes just wanting, and Dean puts his hand on the back of Sam’s neck, rubbing his fingers over the soft nap like he used to do when Sam was tired and whiney and Dean would have to calm him down before they hit the road again. Eyes fluttering, Sam leans into it, and Dean barely make a conscious decision before he catches Sam’s mouth against his, licking into Sam’s candy-center, pulling Sam right into his lap so Sam’s legs spread wide open around Dean’s thighs.

The kid wants it so bad, it’s so obvious by the way Sam presses so hard against Dean, making little muted gasps against Dean’s mouth. It’s almost enough to do Dean in, and he kisses up Sam’s neck, dragging his teeth up and feeling Sam shiver underneath him. He doesn’t want to do more than this right now, kissing all the warm, soft parts on his brother, confessing how much he wants this, how beautiful Sam is like this. Sam glows under the praise and touches, arching his back like a cat when Dean reaches under his brother’s shirt to run his hand up Sam’s hip.

It ends abruptly, Dean pushing away, panting, looking down to see Sam’s puffy, used lips, pupils blown wide and hair teased out.

He starts the car again, pulls out and avoids Sam’s eyes as they continue to drive. He lasts thirty minutes before he has to pull over again on the dusty side of some sunflower-lined, unused highway. Sam gets out when Dean does, questions in his eyes, but Dean meets him halfway, pushes Sam into the warm hood of the car and kisses him deep and breathless. Sam’s legs fold in and Dean’s the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge, although Dean’s got just enough brainpower to see the irony in that. Sam’s been his lifeline since Day One, giving him a reason to keep going, keep fighting.

They get back in the car, still not talking about it, but Sam’s mouth softened into a dopey smile, and Dean can’t help but feel relieved and content at Sam’s happiness.

They pull over an hour later, the same thing, although with Sam rolling his hips more insistently, whining and begging for more.

“Want you to fuck me,” Sam groans in Dean’s ear, and Dean feels his cock jump from how dirty those words sound in what used to be his brother’s innocent mouth.

“You promised not to push,” Den reminds him while mouthing across Sam’s chest. Sam’s t-shirt is pushed up and hooked around the back of Sam’s neck because Dean figured out how much Sam likes his pink tits touched, and he loves the high-pitched noises Sam makes when his teeth brush over the nubs.

“I lied,” Sam hiccups back, and if Dean’s being honest with himself, he already knew that. “ _Please_ ,” Sam adds a second later, fingers pressed against Dean’s scalp. “I don’t... it has to be now. Before we – we get to Pastor Jim’s. Please.”

Dean gets it. It feels like they’re fighting against the clock, putting everything they have into this forgotten bit of highway in the middle of nowhere. Because once they hit society, Dean doesn’t know how things will pan out. There’s a good chance he’ll try to save Sam from himself again, although Dean’s consciously _not_ dwelling on that right now, not thinking about the future.

It takes three more stops by the side of the road before Dean gives in. Sam’s managed to get more and more pieces of their clothing off at each stop, and Dean weakly fights it, but he loves the way Sam summer-warm skin feels against his own. He loves the way Sam’s teeth come out when Dean loses his shirt, sharp kitten bites going up and down Dean’s freckles arms and tummy.

He finds the perfect place while they’re still inside South Dakota. The state’s abnormally covered in sunflowers, more so than most of the states they’ve been through, and when Dean sees a thicker patch of the yellow flowers growing around an old fence and long wildgrasses, he finds himself pulling over.

“Grab the blanket,” he says to Sam as he leans over to grab something from the glove compartment before jumping out of the car.

Sam silently obeys (a rarity), and follows Dean over to the other side of the fence. After taking the blanket from his brother, Dean snaps it open and lays it down over the soft grass. He hesitates, unsure how to start this, but Sam, ever-anxious for any sign that Dean’s going to put a stop to this, tucks himself into Dean’s arms and starts kissing him, tugging him down until they’re both lying on the blanket.

With some careful maneuvering, Sam manages to slip underneath Dean, grabbing the front of Dean’s shirt and pulling until he crawls over Sam.

“You sure you want this?” Dean has to ask because nothing, not even sex, comes before protecting and keeping Sammy safe.

A full, dimple-bracketed smile breaks out on Sam’s face, and it reminds Dean of Sam’s best, happiest moments – making the school play, sneaking into the Minneapolis museum for Sam’s tenth birthday, shooting off fireworks on July 4, 1996. Dean’s not sure how fucked up it is that even at this moment, possibly about to take his little brother’s V card, Dean can’t compartmentalize their lives to separate the distinction from family and sex. Maybe doesn’t even want to.

“I’ve never wanted anything more in my life,” Sam says, and he makes the softest sigh as he kicks off his cut-off jeans and widens his thighs. He looks like something ready to be ruined, too pure and perfect. Dean leans down to kiss him, smoothing his hands down the side of Sam’s face and brushing his hair back. The kid’s always been a touch-starved thing, not unlike Dean, practically purring while Dean pets through Sam’s silky hair and kisses him deep.

“Gonna take care of you, little brother,” Dean promises in a heavy breath, scooting down and nuzzling down Sam’s belly and between his thighs. He pushes Sam’s knees up so they’re on either side of his head and lets his fingers drag along the wet front of Sam’s underwear.

The moment Dean peels off Sam’s briefs, Sam gasps and arches back, sounds caught high in throat as Dean leans down to gulp Sam’s dick down his throat.

The kid can’t stay still, kicking out while Dean sucks him off, hands reaching down to touch the top of Dean’s head before fluttering around him. He shoots off with little coaxing, tears caught in his eyes as Dean swallows everything down, licking broad stripes up and down Sam’s dick to make sure he caught everything.

As soon as Sam’s dazed eyes turn from the open sky to Dean, he takes a shaky breath and, breathless, says, “More, Dean. Please.”

“Turn your ass up,” Dean answers, hands cupped underneath Sam and nudging him higher. Sam rocks back, body still shaking, and Dean presses right in, tongue slipping inside Sam, eating him out, patient as Sam learns to get used to the sensation and eventually starts rocking into it.

“That good, baby?” Dean tentatively presses a finger to the edge, just testing the give, and Sam gasps and whines.

“Fuck yeah.”

“I could just finger you open.” It’s almost a plea. Groping blindly at the edge of the blanket, Dean finds the lube he’d brought from the glove box, coats his finger and carefully pushes in. It’s amazing how pretty and pink Sam is everywhere, especially here, rosy and opening up so sweetly around him. “I bet I could make you come again, just on my fingers.”

Sam pauses then reaches down to tug Dean up, drawing Dean’s body back over his. “C’mere.” 

Dean moves easily, kissing up Sam’s collarbone, licking up his chin, and then crashing their mouths together.

Against Dean’s mouth, Sam quietly but firmly says, “I’m not leaving this field until you pop my cherry.” Sam’s legs open and wrap around Dean while his skinny hips start pumping up and down. “It won’t hurt, I promise. I’ve gotten four fingers up there before, Dean. Do it all the time.”

Dean’s eyes go snow blind for a moment, too many mental images of his baby brother spread out on some random motel room, working his own fingers into himself, probably imagining this exact moment. “Did you come just like that, Sammy?” Dean hoarsely asks, barely aware of what he’s saying. “Did you like it? Being filled up tight and cracked open?”

“Loved it,” Sam answers, thighs tightening around Dean. He licks into Dean’s mouth, dirty and sweet, and Dean doesn’t care how sloppy the kid is, it’s the greatest kiss of his life. Between their mouths, Sam continues, words slurred and frantic. “Want you to fuck me, come inside. I’ll be so good, Jesus fucking hell, Dean, I promise. I promise.”

“Sammy.” Dean has to put his hands on Sam’s hips to still them. “Slow down, just a sec. Gotta get you ready. Hold on.” Slipping his hand back down, Dean pushes back, crooks his fingers inside and presses every sweet, responsive place inside his brother.

Sam takes it really pretty. Eyes fluttering back, pink mouth dropping open. When Dean finally presses in, Sam’s chest pumps in two large breaths and his hands come around Dean’s neck, trying to pull him closer.

“You ok?” Dean asks against Sam’s collarbone, heart squeezing tight, holding his breath until Sam answers.

“Ye-ah,” Sam answers, voice cracking. “So good. Fuck Dean, wanted this forever.”

Something fragile breaks inside Dean, and he holds Sam so tight, presses deep inside and comes so hard that he can’t catch his breath, pants against Sam’s warm, golden skin for what seems like a lifetime. Sam’s hard again, fisting his own dick when Dean’s brain comes back online, and he rolls to the side, mouthing sloppy against Sam’s shoulder.

“That’s it, Sammy. Felt so goddamn good inside, nothing like it. Come on, baby.” He reaches down, but his fingers only gets as far as Sam’s belly before Sam jerks and comes, spilling over his own hand and going limp against the ground.

Dean rolls back half-over Sam, kissing his face and whispering how beautiful and fucking hot he is, maybe even slipping out a “love you” while Sam soaks in every endearment. Drained and tired, Sam kisses back then nuzzles himself into Dean’s chest and yawns.

“Can we stay here forever?” Sam’s voice is small and full of false hope, and Dean doesn’t have the heart to deny him anything at this moment.

“Of course,” he assures his brother, arms wrapped around Sam’s shoulders. “Whatever you want. Anything.”

Tomorrow’s never a certainty, not with the way they live, not with the reckless way Dean’s thrown himself into their bloody and violent life. But this is the best bit of home and solace Dean’s had in a while. So he’s settles down and lets Sam doze for as long as he wants.


End file.
